


an interpretation of words unsaid

by alchemistique



Series: the gory and glamorous life of crime [2]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consensual Sex, Drug Dealing, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Knife Violence, M/M, Minor Injuries, Organized Crime, Possessive Sex, References to guns, Sequel, and a lil bit of size/daddy kink thrown in for flavor, one instance of homophobic language cos them's the breaks, sad criminals and reckless boys, some mild repressed trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemistique/pseuds/alchemistique
Summary: “What if—” Brian works his jaw for a minute, then raises his head to lock eyes with Pat. “What if I came with you?”Pat’s mouth clicks shut again. He digs his fingers into the fabric of the couch, staring down at Brian, cold, closed off.“Don’t be an idiot.”“I’m serious.” Brian’s up now, hands running through his hair nervously. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying either, to be honest, but he barrels on. “I mean—why not? I did it once. I’ll be so good. I’ll do whatever you ask and I won’t say anything and I won’t even bring my phone. Please?”A twitch across Pat’s face. Something in his eyes, amaybe, maybe.“No.”(a direct sequel to spacegirl's "an alternative to physical torture")
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Series: the gory and glamorous life of crime [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838674
Comments: 30
Kudos: 68





	an interpretation of words unsaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceegirl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [spaceegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceegirl/pseuds/spaceegirl). Log in to view. 



> whoa, wow, what's up, i don't remember how to do this. if you somehow found this because of anything i've written in the past, sorry, those ships have sailed. yeah, this is RPF, don't @ me. everything here does what it says on the tin. if you're a person in those tags, or know a person in those tags, kindly be off.
> 
> one hundred million thanks to space, who let me barrel into her DMs months and months after the original fic was written and gave me full permission to play in this sandbox. i didn't think i could write anymore, tbh, so this has been a joy for a multitude of reasons. this is a direct sequel, so if you haven't read the first one, it might not make a whole lot of sense, but also why wouldn't you read the first one anyway, it's fantastic.
> 
> we maaaaaaybe have more ideas for this verse and there has been a lot of shouting across oceans and time zones about it. we'll see. we'll see.

_Do you remember how to get to mine?  
Or should I text you the address?_

⚬

He does, in fact, remember how to get to Pat’s place—this forbidden information he kept tucked away in his mind and never acted on—and the next evening, a handful of subway stops later, he’s there, he’s _there._

Pat eases the door open slowly, too slowly, his eyes tracking Brian from top to bottom and back again. He’s in a soft gray sweatshirt that Brian frankly can’t wait to get his hands on. His hair’s just a touch longer, framing his strong jawline, and Brian honest to god hitches his breath, like, like some kind of blushing maiden—

Pat opens the door wider, ducks his head into the hall and gives it a quick sweep, before stepping back to let Brian in. The apartment is much the same, if a little more cluttered. Brian is struck by the normalcy, how Pat could be some corporate Manhattanite instead of—of _this._ He’s clearly very, very good at not getting caught.

Brian hadn’t realized that Pat crossed to the kitchen to fetch two beers. He turns, hesitating in the doorway, and holds one out to Brian.

“So, hey.”

“Hey.” Brian can’t help the dopey grin that melts across his face. He takes a long pull from his beer. “Keeping busy?”

“You know. Business as usual.” Pat smiles, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. “Find a job yet?”

“Working this gig economy. It’s temp, three days a week downtown editing user manuals.”

“Thrilling.”

“Ha.” He lets out a breath of a laugh, then sets his beer on the counter. He didn’t come here to talk shop about work, illegal or otherwise. He came here for one thing, and one thing only, and Patrick is still staring at him like he’s terrified, like Brian can’t really be here, wanting and waiting and eager.

Brian gently plucks Pat’s own beer from his hand, puts it aside, and slowly runs a hand up Pat’s chest. The sweater is just as worn as he’d imagined. He fists a hand around the collar, and pulls Pat down for a kiss.

Something in Pat breaks at this, shakes loose, allows him to curl his huge hands around Brian’s waist and tug him closer. Brian buries his fingers in soft black hair, yielding his lips and his tongue to Pat’s control. He’s not sure who starts walking them backwards to the couch, both of them maybe, sympatico, equally excited to reach their shared goal now that the walls have come down.

Brian pins him to the couch, then, settles his legs on either side of Pat’s lap. It throws him right back to that night, both of them still bruised and sore in the soft light of his bedroom, Pat wracked with guilt even as he let his hands take and claim. He’s much the same now, hands settling just above Brian’s ass, and he tilts his head back when Brian nips at his jaw, right above the white patch of stubble. There’s a cut just below his eye, pink and fading. Brian pulls back to run a finger along it, and when Pat’s eyes flutter closed, Brian allows himself a moment to breathe and to study the hard lines of Pat’s face, his eyelashes, the curve of his nose.

God, he’s beautiful.

“What did you come here for, Brian?” Pat’s voice is a low murmur, his eyes still closed as Brian’s fingers make their way down his neck. “What do you—what do you _need_?”

“Just you, Patrick,” he whispers, pressing their lips together again in a barely-there kiss. “Whatever you’ll give me.” When Pat slowly opens his eyes, Brian meets him with a wicked grin. “But if you’re gonna make me choose, I gotta say, I’ve been _dying_ to blow you.”

“Jesus,” Pat hisses out. Brian’s already got one hand on the bulge in his black jeans, his clever fingers working a choked-off groan from Pat’s lips. “Jesus, god—yeah, yes, Brian, you can, please—”

Brian tugs on the gray sweater, but he doesn’t even make it halfway up Pat’s torso before a cell phone is ringing.

Pat goes stock still for approximately half a second before his hand flies to his back pocket. He nearly dislodges Brian, a quick “sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry—” and before Pat can cross to the kitchen, quick as a shot, Brian is pretty sure he sees Tara’s name on the screen.

Pat’s gone as far into his kitchen as possible, back facing Brian and ramrod straight as he stands in a corner, one fist clenched at his side. His voice betrays every tight coiled muscle of his body, when he answers and lets out a lazy, “Hullo.”

A beat, two beats. It’s definitely Tara’s voice on the other end—Brian’s not sure he could ever forget it—but nothing distinguishable. Pat’s shoulders hitch up just a little bit.

“I’m kinda busy. Get Jenna or Clayton.”

The voice rises in pitch, and Pat unclenches his fist to tug at his hair instead. “You seriously can’t—”

He clicks his mouth shut when Tara presumably cuts him off. He listens for another thirty seconds, and Brian watches as his entire body seems to deflate in resignation.

Well, so much for this night. Over before it’s started.

“Yeah,” Pat acquiesces. “Yeah, okay. Yeah. Twenty minutes, twenty-five maybe. Fine. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and drops it onto the counter. Heaves the heaviest sigh before turning to face Brian.

“I, um, I have to—”

“You have an assignment.” Brian sits up, wraps his knees to his chest. “I gathered that.” He tries not to let his face betray his disappointment. “Comes with the territory, huh?”

Pat gives a bitter laugh. “Unfortunately.” He crosses back over to Brian, leans over to press a kiss to his head. “It—it won’t take long, it _maybe_ won’t take long, god I hope not, but you can stay here, you don’t have to go, there’s plenty of food and booze and Netflix and games, do whatever you want—”

“What if—” Brian works his jaw for a minute, then raises his head to lock eyes with Pat. “What if I came with you?”

Pat’s mouth clicks shut again. He digs his fingers into the fabric of the couch, staring down at Brian, cold, closed off.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m serious.” Brian’s up now, hands running through his hair nervously. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying either, to be honest, but he barrels on. “I mean—why not? I did it once. I’ll be so good. I’ll do whatever you ask and I won’t say anything and I won’t even bring my phone. Please?”

A twitch across Pat’s face. Something in his eyes, a _maybe, maybe._

“No.”

“ _Pretty_ please?”

“God.” Pat hangs his head low between his shoulders, stretches his arms out. “God, you’re fucking insane. This isn’t—I can’t _baby-sit_ you, Brian.”

And okay, that stings a little, when Brian remembers that night in the car, coming down from a mysterious high, Pat yelling on the phone, when all he wanted was to be held and kissed and fucked. “It won’t be baby-sitting if I’m helping you, Patrick. But—” He sighs and slumps back against the cushions. “Fine. You’re right. Couldn’t hurt to ask.” He grabs the remote and opens up the Netflix menu, turning away from Pat. He knows he’s being a brat now, because he’s a youngest child and he knows how to execute a good sulk, to get his way.

It’s working, because he hears Pat let out a quiet, pained groan, a soft curse. Hears him push himself off the couch, clang around the kitchen, putting away the beers. Hears a jangle of keys, the heavy clomp of boots. Brian is studiously ignoring it—(pretending to ignore it)—when Pat steps in front of him, blocking the TV, wearing his leather jacket. He’s tucking a very impressive looking knife into his front pocket.

“You’ll have to change.”

Brian sits up, eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. “I’m coming?”

“Change first. You can’t wear that.”

“Why not?” Brian looks down at himself and, oh, okay, this shirt has a pretty bold purple stripe pattern going on, and his converse are teal blue, and it’s maybe a lot. Pat gives him a tight-lipped smile.

“Lucky for you, my favorite color is black.”

⚬

So now he’s in Pat’s car, and his new black t-shirt has some band logo on it, which he hides by zipping up the black hoodie, and the black jeans are too tight in some places and too big in others, but it’s enough. The sneakers can’t be helped, and Pat is sure to give him a dramatic eye-roll, because there is no way Brian can safely walk in any of Pat’s boots, so. It’s fine. It’ll have to be fine.

“I didn’t think this job came with a dress code.”

“It does for cute little theatre freaks.” Pat’s trying not to smile, trying to keep up this ruse of reluctant chaperone-slash-mentor that he’s been conned into. “Best to stick with the dark colors, when you can. And shoes,” he adds pointedly.

Brian gives a little tap on the footwell, just because he can. “Where are we going?”

“Warehouse first. I’ll be honest, I have no idea what Tara’s signed me up for, just that I can’t say no or I’ll get my ears boxed. Dollars to donuts everyone else is just sitting around playing fucking card games and she tagged me in just to torture me.”

Brian giggles. “Like she knew I was with you.”

Pat scowls. “Don’t even joke. Hell, she probably did. You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t turn you right back around and send you packing.”

“Nah,” Brian says, “she won’t. You heard her last time. I’m the new Karate Kid.”

“Get your fuckin’ feet off my dash and be quiet.”

⚬

Jenna, to her credit, is standing at a long table sorting a mountain of pills when they arrive. But Simone and a taller, bearded man—Clayton, Brian had heard the name Clayton—are, in fact, hunched together in a couple of chairs, heads bent over a pair of Switches. The scene is so startlingly normal in contrast to Jenna’s work that Brian can’t help but to immediately laugh.

Three heads whip up in unison, and when Simone meets Brian’s eyes, she actually _cheers._ “Baby boy!” She throws aside her Switch and scoops up Brian’s face in her hands, squishing his cheeks, mussing his hair. “Oh, _look_ at you, did Patrick bag us a new protege? You had to come back for more, didn’t you, no lessons learned, no sense in that pretty head of yours, hmm?”

“Cut it out, Sim,” Pat growls from behind him. “Don’t ask. Wasn’t my idea.”

“No, you just _seduced_ him.” Simone’s grin is sharp and knowing. “Lured him in with your criminal ways and dug your claws in, didn’t you?”

Pat gets a hand on Brian’s arm and gently frees him, then flicks a finger on Simone’s forehead. “Shut up. Where’s Tara?”

“I’ll get her,” Jenna says. She peels off her gloves and claps Brian’s shoulder as she passes, her smile warm and genuine. “It’s good to see you again, Brian."

“Thanks,” he mumbles, shy, and then Clayton’s extending a hand to introduce himself, and striking up a conversation with Pat, and it feels so rote, like the bunch of them are standing around an office water cooler and not carrying out vague missions involving pills and guns and cash and who knows what else.

“Patrick.”

Brian turns before Pat can, and Tara has her arms folded, her face schooled into something blank and unreadable. Her heels are the tallest thing Brian’s ever seen.

“Tara,” Pat says in return. Brian holds up a hand in a weak wave.

Tara takes three long steps forward and grips Brian’s chin without preamble. She tilts his head side to side, peers into his eyes, lets her gaze track all the way down to his bright blue shoes.

She taps a fingernail on his chest, right above the band logo on a shirt that is obviously not his. “Is this what you were ‘kinda busy’ with, Patrick?”

Pat doesn’t take the bait. “What’s our job tonight?”

“It’s ‘ours’ now?” She smirks. “I don’t know if he can handle this one, Patrick.”

“He can handle it.”

“I can handle it.” Brian’s answering before he can even think. Tara turns her eyes back to him, and he recognizes the same glint from Pat in the apartment, the idea worming into both of their brains that maybe, just maybe, this— _he_ —can work in their favor.

She lets go of his chin and shrugs, flips her hair over her shoulder. “Both of you, come with me.”

⚬

Tara’s office is a far cry from the concrete halls she leads them through. If you didn’t know the building that housed it, and ignored the lack of windows, it could pass for corporate-cozy. Brian knows, yet again, that he’s in way over his head. Pat unceremoniously drops himself onto the plush couch, boots hanging over the edge, arms behind his head. Tara gestures for Brian to sit on a chaise against the wall, then locks the door behind them.

She turns on her heel to face Pat, and gives his arm a little shove.

“I don’t like this, Patrick.”

He opens one lazy eye to look up at her. Pauses, considering. “It wasn’t my idea,” he answers slowly, and they turn twin criminal gazes upon Brian.

Brian shifts and sits on his hands and bows his head and tries to not to look too much like a ten-year-old outside the principal’s office.

“Why are you here, Brian?”

He lifts his head to look at Tara. Her hands are folded pleasantly in front of her, and the slight smile on her face is completely devoid of emotion, pasted on. Pat’s sitting up now, whipcord tense, eyes locked on Brian.

“I—I don’t know.” He doesn’t mean to whisper. “I guess I just...thought, maybe...”

Tara holds a hand up. “You’ve shown up here at Patrick’s side in Patrick’s clothes. I promise you, you do not need to impress him.” She smirks, a little bit cruel. “He was moping for days and _days_ after he sent you home—”

“Oh my god, Tara.” Pat moans behind his hands. “Please—”

She snaps her fingers at him without looking, and Pat sinks back onto the couch, hands buried in his hair. “He’s taking a chance on you,” Tara continues gently. “A big one. He’s an idiot, but now you’re here and you’ve seen too much.” She grabs his chin again, forces his head up to look into his eyes. “Don’t fuck it up, baby boy, or it’s Patrick who will pay.”

Brian shudders from head to toe.

She crosses the room and settles behind her desk, a smooth gleaming work of wood. Pat shoots a frantic glance at Brian, and it looks a little bit like _please don’t do this_ or _please let me take you home before it’s too late_ or _please make it so that I never have to see you again and I can save you from all of this._ Brian resolutely looks at Tara instead.

“First stop is Whitehall’s on Staten Island.” Tara slides open a drawer and pulls out several fat stacks of hundreds. Brian tries and fails to keep his face neutral. “Ask for Rob at the bar. Don’t hand this over until he gives you the guns.” She starts counting each bill, placing them neatly in front of her. “There’ll be five of them, with silencers and bullet rounds, five hundred apiece. This covers it.” The bills are scooped up again in a manicured hand, tucked into a slim leather case and handed to Pat. “Step one.”

Okay, Brian thinks. Okay. Guns. That’s—fine. He doesn’t know anything about them and sure as shit can’t fire one, but it could be worse. There’s worse in this hell-hole country. What’s a little firearms dealing between friends, right?

“Second stop is Dixie’s, on 12th and Sixth, underneath the Turkish restaurant—you remember? Good. You’ll sell her the guns at seven hundred apiece, no less. If she argues, well—” Tara retrieves another item from the drawer, a plain manila envelope. “The intel in here will shut her up real quick.” She slides it over to Pat. “It won’t be necessary, but just in case.”

Pat’s not moved or said a word, but Tara looks unconcerned. Brian will have to rationalize the blackmail and extortion later. Just—don’t think about it.

 _You asked for this_ , says a grim voice in his head.

“The last is just our weekly trade-off with Viktor—uptown Viktor, we’re not working with midtown Viktor anymore, so for the love of _god_ do not show up at the wrong house. He’ll have a hundred grams for you. And after that—” Tara slowly tracks her eyes between the two of them. “You’ll be free to, ahem, resume your previous activities.”

“Fine.” Pat stands with no fanfare. “You’re really getting your miles in tonight, but fine. Easy enough.”

Tara gives them a brilliant smile, reaches into her blazer, and hands Brian a ten dollar bill.

“Tell you what, I’ll even let you stop for coffee first. Keep the change.”

⚬

Pat had refused to come into the Starbucks with him. “Just get me a fucking black coffee, kid, or whatever stupid name they call it.” He’s scowling and gruff as he lights his cigarette. Brian can’t really see him in there anyway, amongst the late-night students with their laptops and piles of notes. When the door closes behind him, Pat practically disappears on the sidewalk, blending into the black night around him.

They’d swapped cars, back at the warehouse, after Pat opened a dingy metal cabinet and fished out a license plate. _Fakes or expired tags_ , he’d explained to Brian. _Way harder to track, and I’m sure as hell not taking my own car all over this god damn city._ As Brian shuffles closer to the counter, he tries to pretend, just for a second, that he’s here for anything else—theatre friends from college, reading over scripts, or treating himself with Laura after a shopping trip. But then his eyes dart to the window, and he can just make out Pat’s long, lanky form in the shadows, the orange tip of his cigarette lighting up his face.

Right. He’s here to, like, do crime.

He orders the coffee for Pat and a ridiculous frappuccino for himself, just because he can, and because it cracks the surly look on Pat’s face just a little bit.

“That’s disgusting.”

Brian takes a loud slurp and pops his lips off the straw. “Yup.”

⚬

Getting to Staten Island isn’t an easy drive, and it’s not much better after rush hour. Pat doesn’t say much, and graciously doesn’t turn up the rock station loud enough to drown out Brian’s voice. Brian tells him about his boring job and some asshole thing Zuko did last week. He can tell that Pat’s still on edge; occasionally, when the streetlights hit his hands, Brian can see how white-knuckled they are on the steering wheel.

All the more reason to prove himself, then.

They squeeze into a parking spot on a street half-dark from busted lamps overhead. It’s mostly houses, in various states of disrepair, a few porches occupied by folks with beer and weed and raucous laughter. There’s a nail salon and a deli, both closed for the night. And down on the corner is a bar called Whitehall’s.

Pat turns off the car and starts to open his door. “Stay here.”

“What? No! Pat, I didn’t tag along just to sit in the car.”

“Well, maybe I’ve decided that’s your job for the night.”

Brian locks eyes with him and summons his best glare. “A lot could happen if you just leave me here, even for five minutes,” he says darkly. “Who knows what this neighborhood is like? I have no idea where I am and anyone could happen by. Let me come, Pat.”

It’s playing dirty, and it works.

Pat growls a little behind his teeth. “Don’t bring that stupid drink in with you.”

Brian scrambles out of the car and follows.

The bar is a bar. It’s dim and loud and sour-smelling. There’s food, but it’s definitely not the kind of place with a kid’s menu. A pool table is backed into a corner. Every person in the room looks like they’ve been on the wrong side of the law, at some point or another. Brian’s a little glad, actually, that they’re not making the sale in some family joint.

Pat’s fingers brush his, link gently, there and gone again.

They don’t bother with stools. Pat leans over the counter and flags down the bartender.

“You Rob?”

The guy frowns. “Who’s asking?”

“Me, dipshit. Tell him it’s PG.”

The guy clicks his tongue, annoyed. “One sec.”

He disappears into the kitchen. Pat winks at Brian, jerks his head toward the back wall. “Think I could stretch far enough to reach one of those shots he’s got lined up?”

Brian giggles, but Pat doesn’t get the chance to try. A surly dude looks at them through the window of the kitchen door, then snaps his fingers.

Past the bathrooms, into a cramped, wood-paneled office barely big enough for the three of them to comfortably stand in. Rob kicks the door shut behind him.

“Let me count it first.”

Pat smirks and it’s not kind. “Let’s do that together, eh?” He pulls the leather billfold from his jacket, pops it open with a flourish. Rob is glaring as Pat very slowly and deliberately counts each bill, then does it again. Satisfied, he holds it out to Rob, then yanks his hand away last minute.

“Ah, ah. You first.”

Rob rolls his eyes, ducks his head beneath the desk. Sets a hard black case in front of Pat and unlocks it for him to inspect.

Pat tilts his head just a little, lifting one of the guns to eye level. His hands are nearly white against it, his fingers fitting easily into the curve of the handle, thumb on the safety. He looks like he was made to shoot. He looks _dangerous._ Brian has no earthly idea how to feel about it, so he raises his eyes to the ceiling instead.

“Hey.” Rob juts his chin at Brian. “Tara know you’re bringing dates along on jobs now?”

Pat sets the gun back down in its case, hard, and before Brian can even turn to him, Pat’s bent over the desk, his knife poised just a hair’s breadth away from Rob’s throat.

“Didn’t anyone in this fucking business tell you to play nice with your colleagues? Or does Tara not know how disrespectful you are?”

Rob slowly raises his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Sorry, man, didn’t know.” His eyes flit to Brian, confused and a little ticked off. “Never seen him, that’s all.”

Pat flips his knife shut with ease, long fingers twirling around the handle and tucking it back into his jacket. He all but throws the billfold at Rob and snaps the case shut. “We’re done here. We’ll be in touch.” He yanks open the office door and hustles Brian out of there without looking back.

He sighs, and it’s angry, when they reach the sidewalk. “What am I gonna do with you?” he whisper-hisses. “Is there _any_ way you can make yourself look less like a just-turned-eighteen pretty boy?”

Brian just smiles at him sweetly. “You think I’m pretty?”

Pat bites his lip, and Brian knows he’s holding back a laugh.

He goes stone cold, though, when he spots the police officer doing a lap around his car, ticket pad at the ready.

“Oh, come the fuck on—hold this,” he snaps, shoving the case into Brian’s arms. “And don’t say anything.” He strides over with all the confidence in the world, arms out, smile at the ready.

“Hey, hey, sorry about that, sir. I’m here, we’re leavin’ now, no fuss.”

The officer shakes his head. “Sorry, kid, they’re cracking down. Rules are rules.” He waves at the sign above their heads. “Can’t block a drive like this.”

“I know, I’m _so_ sorry, it was so dark and I didn’t see it—” Pat’s putting on a real show now, as close as he can to pouting, a little bit of a whine in his voice. “We’ve really gotta get home anyway, and it’s such a long drive, we can just let this one go, right?”

He’s not impressed. “Settle down, son. It’s a small fee and you can pay it online. I already ran the numbers.” He tears off the sheet and hands it to Pat, no more arguments to be made.

“Listen to me—” Pat jerks the guy’s sleeve, then, pulls him in real close to whisper something in his ear. It takes every nerve in Brian’s body not to leap in between them and ask Patrick just what the _fuck_ he’s doing. They’re parting soon enough, though, and the officer’s gone wide-eyed and pale and stuttering.

“Y-Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir. Don’t worry about any of this.” He takes the ticket back and crumples it up, jams it into his pocket. “Have an excellent night.”

Pat’s already sliding into the car while Brian watches him go, his brain still whirring. Pat pokes him gently in the back.

“Come on, kid. Put those in the trunk. We ain’t got all night.”

Brian nods furiously and does as he’s told and straps himself back in. Pat’s off like a shot, and it’s only when they’re peeling onto the highway ramp that Brian clears his throat nervously.

“Um—what did you—what did you say to that officer?”

Pat grins, and it’s toothy and wide and manic. “Either I told him exactly who he was dealing with”—he slides his eyes over to Brian—“or I told him I was really eager to get this sweet piece of ass home and in bed. Take your pick.”

 _ _Brian just throws his hands up in defeat. “_ Patrick_!”

⚬

It’s a hike back into Manhattan, and Brian seizes control of the radio despite Pat’s protests. He lets up on the grumbling, a bit, when Brian starts singing along to Taylor Swift, flailing wildly in his seat. It’s worth it for the way Pat tries to set his lips, keep his eyes on the road and ignore Brian. He’s only a little bit successful.

Then they’re parked again, several blocks from where they need to be, but that’s Manhattan for you. They pull their jackets tighter against their bodies in the wind, and after a block of walking, Brian links their fingers and tugs.

“Hey, I—”

Pat turns, cast in striking shadows from the light, and he’s so handsome and angular and untouchable and Brian can’t stand it. He swallows.

“Just—thanks, again, for the thing back there. With Rob. I’m sorry that keeps happening, that you have to keep, like, guarding me in this weird way, I know it’s just my face and I can’t help that—”

Pat slides his free hand up to cup Brian’s cheek, then draws him in for a slow kiss, warm and lazy and lingering. Brian lets himself melt into it.

“I do,” Pat murmurs, nosing along Brian’s jawline.

“You do what?”

“Think you’re pretty.” He can feel Pat’s smile, the blunt scrape of teeth on his skin. It’s filled with _so_ much promise. Brian kind of wants this night to be over now.

“Though it does worry me,” Pat says with a sigh, parting them, “about this next location. You really should hang back.”

“Where are we going this time? Who’s Dixie?”

“She’s—” Pat presses his mouth into that grim line again. “Never mind. It’s fine. It’ll be fine, if you’re with me.”

Brian smiles and kisses his cheek. “I’m with you.”

⚬

They hop down a few steps below the entrance to the restaurant. The metal black door is heavy and non-descript, any one of the thousands of doors that lead to basements and cellars in this city. When Pat knocks, they’re greeted by a man almost twice the size of Brian—the muscle—who looks them up and down with a nod.

“Reference?”

“No reference. Not that kinda visit. PG here for Dixie.”

He lets them in, and the door falls shut behind them with an ear-splitting screech.

The narrow hallway is barely lit, but when they reach the entrance, Brian’s eyes have adjusted enough to make out the—the _parlour_ , is really what this room is, velvet chaises and chairs, the walls draped in muted reds and pinks. There are lit candles strewn about and the room smells overwhelmingly of designer perfume.

“Patrick, Patrick.” A woman is gliding over to them, taking Pat’s cheeks in her bejeweled hands and kissing them both. “It’s always so nice when they send the handsome ones. Come, come, let’s see what you’ve brought me this time.”

Brian can’t tell if Dixie is fifty-five or thirty-five. Her makeup is bold, but not gauche, and she’s wrapped in soft pink silks. She has rings on each finger, glittering nails and bangles that clink musically on her wrists. It’s genuinely impossible to tell if the silver streaks in her hair are natural or dyed.

It hits Brian very suddenly, the cold shock of realization. He blinks once and follows Pat without a word and knows, now, exactly where they are and what kinds of services Dixie’s provides.

Dixie is offering them a table, drinks, but Pat politely demurs. “Full docket tonight, madame, but I appreciate the offer.”

“You simply _must_ come back on a night off, Patrick. First session’s free to VIP clients. Surely I can find _someone_ who will interest you?”

Christ above. Brian feels his entire neck go red. It’s so very like that night with Max, and yet so very not.

Pat either doesn’t notice or is trying to keep her attention. “I’m really quite all right, but thank you. Shall we simply do my business, instead?” He sets the case on the table, and soon he has her wrapped up in a lesson. Brian watches him strip a gun and reassemble it with practiced pale fingers. He shows Dixie how to reload it, where to put her thumb on the safety, the steadiest angle for a person of smaller stature and weight. He’s patient and kind and he could be doing anything else, teaching her anything else, and it would look the same.

“Your girls will learn,” Brian hears him say. “Have Kenny or Jace teach them, show them the ropes. All numbers filed off, untraceable. Get in touch any time, if you need more.”

“You are a doll, Patrick.” She actually pinches his cheek. “I should get _you_ to come back to give the lessons, you’re such a good teacher and it’s nice to have someone easy on the eyes.”

“I can’t, madame, but thank you.”

“You’re an old bore.” She smacks his chest. “Now—tell me, who is this?”

Brian bites his lip and straightens his back. Pat’s opening his mouth to answer, but Dixie takes Brian’s hand and curtsies.

“I simply must ask—has Tara snatched you up yet, or are you still open to other opportunities?”

“Dixie—”

“This one’s _gorgeous_ , Patrick. Not suited to your line of work at all. He’s so clean and soft—” She pushes up Brian’s sleeve, runs her fingers along his arm. “Oh, you could make excellent money with me, darling. I don’t have too many men on my roster right now, and there’s always a need, especially the cute young ones. And it’d be so convenient to have a direct contact with Patrick’s little operation.”

Pat yanks his arm, then, lets Brian stumble back and catches him with an arm around his chest. “He’s with me, Dixie,” he intones carefully. “And I’d appreciate it if you took your search for new blood elsewhere.”

Dixie smirks in something like recognition. “Ah, we finally have our answer as to why Patrick Gill can’t be bought.”

Brian shifts a little, shrugs Pat’s arm away. “I do work for Tara, madame,” he says, and hopes his voice comes out steady and professional. “My name’s Brian. Thank you for the offer, but I’m already contracted.”

Dixie shrugs, flippant. “My mistake. When your contract runs out, though, you’ll know where to find me.” She reaches into her robes and pulls out a wad of cash. “Now, what did we agree on, again?”

⚬

In the car, Brian puts his head in his hands and presses hard on his eyelids. “This is giving me a complex about my appearance.”

Pat’s been clenching and unclenching his fist, the whole walk back. “Fuck. I knew I should’ve—it’s not too late to drop you back at the warehouse, before my last stop. God, I’m so sorry, she can be—persistent.”

Brian lets out a wet, panicked laugh. “I thought she’d put me to work right then and there, if I said yes.”

“She’s good, I’ll give her that.” Pat drums his fingers on the door, anxious. “They’re not, like, shady or anything. Well, not for that kind of business. They’ve got guards and shit. And guns, now, for any girls that want to have them on hand.” Brian doesn’t answer for a long beat, and Pat leans over to lift his chin. “We won’t go back there, okay? I really should’ve known. After that night with M—”

“Don’t,” Brian whispers. “Please.”

“All right.” Pat drops his hand, starts the car instead. “Are you sure you wanna keep going?”

“Yes,” Brian says, but he’s not sure if he means it.

⚬

Once uptown, Pat stops at a food cart and grabs empanadas for both of them. They settle on a curb at the edge of a small playground, and Brian stares into the middle distance while he chews, taking in the lights of apartments above, the ever-present hum of traffic, distant shouts volleying across balconies. And it’s, wow, nearly eleven according to his watch, but they are in the city that never sleeps.

Pat slides over, clears the small amount of distance between them. Brian drops his head onto his shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Pat Gill.” Brian knows his voice is tired, but he musters up a smile anyway. “You’ve got weird definitions of what constitutes a date.”

Pat barks a laugh and wraps an arm around Brian’s waist to pull him closer, kissing his forehead. “I’d like to take you on a real one—someday? If you’d like.” He’s biting his lip, as if Brian’s actually going to say no, like he’s not already gone on this man, the law be damned.

“Well.” Brian feigns a haughty sniff. “I’ll need something more than food truck empanadas in Harlem, but I could be persuaded.”

“Dick.” Pat kisses him then, quick and flirty, and it’s so easy for Brian to imagine that they’re—that they’re _normal_ , nothing more than lovers canoodling in a park at night. He wonders if Pat has ever had this. If he’s ever even been given the chance.

Brian nudges along his jaw. “Was Tara joking, when she said that you moped for days?”

“God.” Pat groans, but he’s smiling, and Brian giggles. “Simone was unbearable. She kept offering up all kinds of wild ideas, ways to pull you back in, or just plain old trapping us into a date somehow. She’s insane.” He buries his face in Brian’s hair. “But she knows what I like,” he says, a little softer. “I’ve known her a long time, now. If anyone can clock that kind of thing, it’s her.”

“Have you ever—” Brian chews his lip. “Has there been anyone, I mean, since—”

“Nah.” He shrugs, and Brian can’t see his face, to know if it’s got sadness written all over it or not. “I did, you know, what I had to do when I was on the streets. Had like one girlfriend in middle school and we know how that turned out. I’ve met some guys, here and there, quick fucks. But this kind of job doesn’t leave a lot of room for dating. For...” He sighs, and it’s wistful. “Attachments.”

They both fall silent, and Brian knows he can’t ignore the truth any longer. Getting caught up with Pat, with his crew, puts him on the map. People will know his name, and what he does, and decide that they don’t like him, for a myriad of reasons.

They’ll know that they can use him to hurt Pat.

Brian extracts himself from Pat’s arms, and stands to collect their garbage. “We should get this over with. God, I’m tired, you must keep the weirdest hours.”

Pat gives a faint smile. “You have no idea.”

⚬

Viktor is already waiting for them on the stoop of his apartment building. He’s a wiry Slavic guy, with a shaved head and a dour face. He flicks his cigarette away and stands, clapping a hand on Pat’s shoulder.

“Pat Gill! We do this, yeah?”

“We do this, Viktor,” Pat says with amusement as he retrieves his roll of cash while Viktor roots around in the backpack next to him. He comes up with a plastic shopping bag wrapped around what looks like a small sack of sugar. Brian, uh, knows that it’s not sugar.

Viktor is also holding out two joints. “You want, yeah? Only I, ehh, did not think you had friend coming.”

Pat waves him off. “S’alright. Long night, we’re ready to wrap this up.”

“You take anyway.” Viktor shark-grins and presses both joints into Brian’s hand. “My gesture of goodwill to new friend. You sleep well tonight after this.”

Brian is saved from nearly dropping them into the sewer grate when Pat closes a fist around his hand. “Thanks, Vik. You want anything extra for this?”

“No, no! For you. You are always good customer, Pat Gill.”

Pat starts counting the money while he banters with Viktor. Even in the late hour, on this mostly-empty street, Brian feels eyes on him.

He turns just a fraction, eyes darting to his peripheral. Coming up the street are two, well, gang-looking dudes, and they’re definitely not out for a midnight stroll, and they’re definitely walking towards Pat with purpose. A malicious one.

“Pat,” he whispers, tugging his sleeve. “Uh, Pat, there might be trouble—”

Viktor spots them first, hisses out “shit, _shit_ —” and starts to shove them both away. “Fuck, I get wrong day, Pat Gill, you can’t be here, they don’t know—”

Pat whips around, poised for a fight, but by then they’re close enough that one of the men _slams_ his arms into Pat’s chest, sending him stumbling back into Brian and Viktor.

“The _FUCK_ you doin’ here, Gill?”

Pat plants his feet firm and recenters himself, holding up his hands in defeat. “I didn’t know, Darryl, I’m just here to work, same as you—”

“Man, shut the fuck up,” Darryl barks in his face, grabs Pat’s arms and twists them behind his back. Pat, to his credit, hides his flinch very well. “This ain’t your block anymore, asshole, you think this shit don’t apply to you guys?”

“Was me!” Viktor cries, trying to wedge himself between them. “I sell to him, I didn’t say no, I was hiding it from you—”

“Fuck off before I beat your little russki ass, too,” he growls. “I gotta deal with this _faggot_ who thinks his bitch boss owns this city. Get the other one, Ant.”

Brian _yelps_ when rough hands pull him back, and then they’re both on the ground, Ant wrestling him into place while Pat jerks in Darryl’s hold. He can’t see much from this angle, but he’s pretty sure Viktor’s already bailed.

Pat’s voice is tight and hitched when he pleads, “Not him, leave him alone, he’s not—he’ll go, he has nothing to do with this, _please_ —”

Ant jeers, filthy in Brian’s ears. “Looks like your man’s in real trouble.” Him and Darryl laugh then, mean and nasty, but it’s cut off when Pat loosens his arm just enough to drive a sharp elbow directly into Darryl’s nose.

He staggers and Pat’s on him before he can blink. His knife is unsheathed and pressed tight against Darryl’s face. “You fuck off,” he spits, “or this faggot will cut your god damn eye out.”

Ant practically drops Brian when he lunges forward, his own knife in hand. Brian shrieks, a garbled _no!_ and flings himself into the fray, and it’s only by physics and good luck that his arm comes up just as Ant’s comes down.

The blade is jagged, meant to do damage, and it tears clean through the fabric of his hoodie and slices a long line down his arm. Pat chokes back a scream and dislodges Darryl with a swift kick to the stomach. He drops, and Pat doesn’t hesitate before plunging his knife deep into the meat of Darryl’s shoulder. He yanks it back out, ignoring the screams, and grabs Ant by the collar, throwing him onto the sidewalk with a satisfying thud to his skull.

Pat drives a boot between Ant’s shoulders, bearing down and leaning over to breathe in Darryl’s face while he writhes and curses on the concrete. “You can go home and tell Trey that I’ll buy from whoever I want and sell to whoever I want and he can fucking take it up with me personally if that’s a problem. Capisce?”

The two men let out wet groans, and Pat spits on the sidewalk next to them. He comes back to himself, then, and whirls to face Brian in a panic. “Fuck, come here, you’re hurt, god dammit this is all my fault—”

Ant is already stirring on the ground beside them, and Pat hisses out a “shit” before wrapping Brian’s good arm around his waist. “We gotta go, kid, come on, I’ve got you.” It’s less like walking and more like dragging as Pat hustles them back to the car. He tenderly lowers Brian into the passenger seat, and his voice is strangled when he says, “Show me.”

Brian holds out his injured arm weakly. He’s only crying a little bit, which he thinks he deserves some credit for. It stings, when Pat peels away the fabric to inspect the damage. “Shit,” he whispers again. “It could be worse, but we gotta get you bandaged up.” He tears off the end of the sleeve and presses it tight to the wound. “Hold this, okay? Are you dizzy?”

“M’fine,” Brian mumbles, but it’s half a lie. He’s not sure if this nausea is from the blood loss or the sheer shock of everything that happened in less than two minutes. “Keep it up, right there, yeah—just press down as hard as you can,” Pat soothes, curling his hand around Brian’s neck. There’s a small speck of blood on Pat’s forehead. He looks at Brian a beat too long, his face unreadable, but whatever he’s thinking goes unsaid as he slides around to the driver’s seat, and then they’re gone.

⚬

Brian doesn’t think he fell asleep on the ride back, but he can only remember the whiz of bright lights against a black sky, the car rumbling beneath him, the steady pulse of blood in his ears. Eventually he’s grabbed by several pairs of hands, voices arguing above him as he’s dropped onto cold hard metal. He blinks and Jenna’s two inches from his face, shining a light into his pupils.

“It’s gonna be all right, kid. Stay still. Trust me.”

Brian closes his eyes, and does.

⚬

“Stop _pacing_ , Patrick, this wasn’t open heart surgery.”

It’s the first thing Brian hears before he opens his eyes, blinking under the harsh lights of the warehouse. Pat’s at his side in an instant, long fingers buried in Brian’s hair as he tugs their faces together and breathes him in.

“God, finally.”

Simone honks a laugh behind them. “You were out for _maybe_ fifteen minutes, kid, long enough for this idiot to give himself an aneurysm.”

Pat ignores her as he helps Brian sit up, a steady hand around his waist. Brian blinks a few times and the room comes into focus; Simone, Jenna, Clayton, and Tara are all hovering around, and each of their faces are saying a different thing, and Brian’s too tired to parse any of it right now.

He’s afraid to, but he has to, so he drops his eyes down to his arm. His hoodie is gone, probably unsalvageable, and his left forearm is clean and wrapped tight in a gauze bandage, a small stain of blood only just peeking through the center. As his brain continues to wake up, he registers the faint bad-good sting of it, a sharp pain tamped down by the cool ointment he can feel along his skin.

Jenna’s there again, gently touching his shoulder. “It wasn’t bad at all. You didn’t even need stitches. It always looks worse than it is, when there’s a lot of blood.” She hands him a little pouch of supplies. “Everything you need is in here, and some sweet painkillers, too. Pat will take care of you. Fair warning, you’re gonna have a gnarly scar, but it’ll make for a great bar story.”

Brian would laugh at that, but he’s so tired, and Pat is so warm and solid against him, and none of it feels real.

“You did all right, Brian.” It’s Tara now, gently brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “These things are par for the course, in all honesty, and you managed just fine. Might even let you do it again, if you’re up for it.”

Brian feels like his mouth is full of cotton, but he manages to mumble, “Can I take a rain check?”

They all laugh, then, and it seems the worst has passed because everyone starts to disperse, back to their own tasks. Pat helps him down from the table, slides a hand around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss, full and deep, in front of everyone and God.

“What do you say we get outta here now?”

Brian closes his eyes and smiles. “Please.”

Simone only gives them one catcall as they’re walking out the door.

⚬

The sight of Pat’s couch is so, _so_ inviting, but he steers Brian right into the bathroom and starts stripping him with no preamble.

“Mm, eager beaver,” Brian mumbles, sleepy and loose-limbed in Pat’s hold. “Give it to me, papí, been waiting all night.”

“You’re not getting that just yet,” Pat huffs, annoyed but fond. “We both gotta clean up.” He perches Brian on the lip of the tub and starts a hot bath, then helps him with the rest of his clothes. Soon Pat’s bare, too, and Brian wants and aches but it also feels so nice to let go, to let Pat guide him into the water and move Brian’s body where he wants it. The tub is more of a basin, wide and deep enough for them to stretch their legs and submerge themselves to their chests. Pat circles his arms around Brian, chest to back, and kisses the nape of his neck.

“I can’t watch something like this happen again,” Pat whispers, muffled in his hair. “I can’t—I can’t stand being the cause of you getting hurt again. It can get so much worse, Bri. You deserve a normal life.”

Brian turns in his arms a bit, bites a hard kiss on his jaw. “Let’s not do the tortured criminal pity party right now, Pat Gill.”

“Brian, I don’t—I don’t _deserve_ y—”

He cuts him off with a full, lush kiss, biting Pat’s lower lip and relishing the whimpers it draws out. “Not right now,” Brian whispers, stroking his thumb along Pat’s stubble. “Just—just take care of me?”

Pat’s eyes are so sad and angry and molten and wanting all at once. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. I will.”

He lathers up an earthy-smelling soap, roams his hands over Brian’s body to wash away the lingering spots of blood and the grime of the city at night. He carefully, _carefully_ unwraps the gauze from Brian’s arm, tracing the washcloth just around the edges of the cut. Brian buries his face in Pat’s neck while he tends to it. He can’t look, not—not right now.

Pat washes him head to toe this way, gentle and methodical, his long fingers scrubbing Brian’s hair and then rinsing it all away. Brian sinks into the hot water and closes his eyes while Pat washes himself, then he’s helping Brian’s useless body up and out of the tub to dry off.

“Sit,” he murmurs, planting Brian on the toilet and wrapping him up in a towel. He ducks out of the bathroom and returns less than a minute later, dressed and holding clothes for Brian and the pouch of supplies from Jenna. Pat slips his hand into Brian’s and gently extends his injured arm to rest on the counter. Brian, too tired and dead-eyed to look away, sets his gaze on the wound and tries not to flinch.

Objectively he knows that Jenna was right, that it looks worse than it is, but it doesn’t make the sight any easier to bear. The cut is one long, curved line that starts at the top of his forearm and wraps around to the soft white skin underneath. It’s not deep, but he can _see_ the minute tears in the skin, where the serrated blade caught him on the downswing. Pat is somber and focused as he cleans it—Brian winces at the alcohol, he can’t help it—rubs ointment onto it, bandages it and wraps it tidy again. Then Pat threads their fingers together, lifts Brian’s hand to kiss along his knuckles. Brian full-body shudders.

Pat brushes aside a strand of Brian’s still-damp hair. “Does it hurt at all?”

“Little,” he slurs. “Stings. Muscle hurts.”

Pat presses two pills into Brian’s hand and closes his fingers into a fist. “Take these, they’ll help you sleep tonight. Get dressed and wash up, there’s a spare toothbrush somewhere in the cabinet.” He presses his lips to Brian’s forehead, holds them there a moment and closes his eyes, and then he’s gone.

Brian does as he’s told, stands on shaky legs and tries to put himself to rights. He goes through the motions in a daze and by the time he’s done, his limbs feel like lead and his brain feels empty. He stumbles back into Pat’s bedroom and drops himself onto the mattress. Pat maneuvers them into something of a cuddle, pressing gentle, reassuring kisses against Brian’s lips, and as much as Brian would love to sit on his dick right now he can’t stop the blackness that creeps in around the edges of his vision, can only bury his face into the solid warmth of Pat’s chest and fall, whether he likes it or not, into a deep deep sleep.

⚬

The light in the bedroom is a muted gray, the bed is empty, and there’s a note next to Brian’s glasses on the nightstand when he finally wakes up.

_Bri,  
Had to take care of something. Will be back before noon, I promise. There’s bacon on the stove. Help yourself to anything in the apartment.  
—Pat_

It’s just after eleven. Brian rolls onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling. It’s raining lightly outside, and he lets the sound wash over him alongside the memories of last night. It’s too much, and he quickly shuts down that train of thought, gets up to search for the promised bacon instead.

He washes up—the bandage survived the night, save for a little fraying at the edges—and it hurts, to move his arm too much, and he’s glad it was the left side that had to take the blow. He’s fed and wrapped up on the couch, watching daytime talk shows, when Pat slips into the apartment and sheds his dripping jacket.

Brian scoots over so Pat can make himself comfortable, draping part of the blanket over him. Pat is freezing and his hair is still a little damp but Brian presses in closer anyway, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“What did you have to take care of?”

“Just some loose ends,” Pat says, flippant. “Reports to give, tactics to plan, people to hurt. Another day at the office.”

Brian clutches his shirt a little tighter at this. “And it’s—taken care of now? These loose ends?”

“It is,” Pat murmurs, snaking an arm around Brian’s waist to tug him even closer. “Less I have to worry about now.”

Brian thinks he knows what he means, and thinks it probably doesn’t bode well for last night’s thugs. If they’re even still—

Nope. Brian quickly decides he doesn’t want to know. (Even if the very idea does send a thrill up his spine, just a little bit.)

Pat dances fingers up and down Brian’s back while the TV drones on. “Did you want to head home? It’s a shit day out there, but I’ll come with you, make sure you get inside all right.”

Brian pulls his head back to give him a pouty glare. “Patrick Gill,” he says sternly, “I have waited over _twelve hours_ for you to get your dick in me and I am not leaving until I get what I came here for.”

Pat blinks at him, a little slack-jawed, a little reverent as he brushes aside one of Brian’s curls. “A-Are you sure? You’re still hurt—”

“Patrick please for the love of god take me to bed _right now._ ”

Their mouths meet then, hungry and desperate and impatient, Pat’s fingers clutching Brian’s hair like a lifeline. With no warning, he hikes Brian’s hips up and stands, strong arms holding him in place while Brian shrieks and giggles and tries not to squirm. Pat kicks the bedroom door shut and drops Brian onto the bed, looming over him in the gray shadows of the rain.

Brian gives him a saucy wink. “Go on, then. Whatcha got for me, daddy?”

Pat clenches his teeth around a groan and drops to his elbows, caging Brian underneath his body. “God, you have no idea what you do to me.”

Brian loops his arms around Pat’s neck and puts on his sweetest, shyest boy-next-door face. “Show me?”

Pat latches his teeth onto Brian’s neck, the soft spot just below his ear. Brian bucks immediately, embarrassed, and he can feel Pat’s smirk as he presses Brian’s hips to the bed. “Easy,” he soothes, dragging his lips along Brian’s jawline. “Gonna take my time with you, baby boy.”

“Nngh,” is Brian’s eloquent response. “Don’t wanna wait—just want it _now_ —”

He chokes back his whimpers as Pat yanks him up, makes quick work of both their shirts. Brian _loves_ being manhandled like this, basks in the feeling of Pat’s huge hands gripping his waist, his forearms tense as he wrestles Brian exactly where he wants him. God, he’s beautiful even in this light; Brian didn’t get to properly admire him the first time, and he slowly, deliberately drags his eyes up and down Pat’s torso, unabashedly taking him in. The only sounds in the room are the rain and their shallow breaths.

“You’re so handsome,” Brian finds himself saying in a hushed, awed voice, without even realizing it. Pat ducks his head, shy, and presses a kiss to Brian’s sternum. “Never seen anyone like you before, Patrick. Gonna take whatever you give me, gonna be so good for you.”

Pat’s breath hitches at that and he bites a hard kiss on Brian’s hipbone. “Careful, baby,” he purrs. “Might get more than you asked for.”

“I can handle it.” Brian smirks down at him. “Show me what a big, tough, scary mobster you are.”

Pat rolls his eyes, fond, but doesn’t give Brian another chance to tease. He mouths along the outline of Brian’s hard cock, and the fabric is rough beneath his tongue. He gasps and tilts his head back when Pat pulls him out, darts his tongue along the tip. Pat helps him shimmy out of his pants and wastes no time getting a hand back on him, swirling precum around with his thumb and using it to slide back down the length of Brian’s cock. Brian can feel the insistent press of Pat’s hard (and, god, _huge_ ) dick against his thigh while Pat slowly jerks him. He drags Pat in for a kiss and he goes willingly, nipping at Brian’s lower lip.

“Gonna get yourself ready for me, baby?” Pat growls into his mouth. “Gonna let me watch while you finger yourself nice and open and wet for me?”

Brian squeaks in agreement and tries to nod, kisses him filthy when Pat twists his wrist around his cock again. Pat pumps his hand twice more and then pulls away, wrenching a moan up deep from Brian’s throat. He shuts his eyes, tries to even out his breathing, and when he looks up again Pat is stripped bare, jacking his cock slowly above him as he drops the lube onto Brian’s chest.

“Let me see you,” he says in a strained voice. The muscles and veins in his arm are whipcord tight and Brian wants to drag his tongue all over him. He sits up and he can’t help it, when he sees the bead of precum on the tip of Pat’s cock, has to list forward and suckle at the head so sweetly between Pat’s fist.

“ _Christ_ , Brian,” Pat chokes, and Brian blinks up at him through his lashes, innocent.

“Want you to fuck my throat, next time,” Brian croons, resting the head of Pat’s cock on his lower lip. “You can use me however you want, hold me down and just shove right in—”

Pat grips him hard by the shoulders and forces him onto his back again, sharply bites his collarbone. His hips slot so perfectly against Brian’s, and he can feel the pulse and throb of Pat’s cock on his. “Come on, come on,” Pat chants in hushed, aborted whispers, scrambling for the lube. “Gotta open you up, baby, need to fuck you _now_ —”

Brian keens when Pat moves away again, but he settles back against the pillows, spreads himself, preens and winks at Pat’s slack-jawed expression. His eyes are dark and blown-out and tracking every movement as Brian coats his fingers, presses in the first finger torturously slow.

There’s a hush in the room save for Pat’s labored breathing. “God above,” Pat exhales into the quiet, “you are so gorgeous, look at you, how...” He trails off, traces his fingers so feather-light along the inside of Brian’s thigh. Brian twitches with it, has to throw an arm over his eyes as he slips in a second finger, grits his teeth around a moan. Even still, he can feel the intensity of Pat’s stare, feels him scrape his teeth along Brian’s knee. “Gonna be so tight, baby boy,” he murmurs against his skin. “Gonna fuck that cute little hole, get you screaming for it, sweetheart. Sure you can take me?”

“Nnnn— _uh-huh_ ,” Brian nods wildly. “You l-look so big, daddy, want you to split me right open, _please_ —”

He startles, hooks an ankle around Pat’s back when he feels a long finger slide in beside his own. Pat fucks him in sync, pins his shoulder to the mattress. “So hot, baby, swallow me right up, huh?” Brian pulls his own hand away, lets his body go boneless until Pat presses three fingers into him, no resistance, up to his perfect knobby knuckles. Brian throws his head back and tries not to _scream_ and Pat immediately latches his teeth onto the tender line of his throat, fucks him open slick and fast and frenzied.

“God, _Patrick_ , y-you can—now, please, I need it—” Brian rolls his hips to meet the last thrust of Pat’s fingers before Pat eases out, leans over to get the condom. Brian watches him hungrily as Pat rolls it on, long fingers gripping his long cock that Brian wants in every part of him all at once, please and thank you.

Emboldened, Brian grabs his neck and yanks him down to kiss him hard and fierce. “Don’t want you to hold back,” he murmurs, biting into Pat’s mouth. “Need it rough, need you to hold me down and just _take_ it.”

Pat groans and Brian feels it in his teeth, feels the shudder that runs its way down Pat’s entire body. “You’re gonna kill me,” he pants, but he seems ready to oblige with no hesitation, wraps Brian’s legs around his thighs and pins him in place.

Pat stays true to his word and sheathes himself with one sharp thrust that punches all the air out of Brian’s lungs. He’s so huge and hot and heavy inside Brian and it’s all he can do to lie back and take it, just as he asked, splay his arms beside him on the bed and bask in the feel of Pat’s strong grip on his thighs as he drives into him again.

“Look at you,” Pat grunts, and Brian arches his back because he _knows_ how he must look, lithe and pale and delicate, his hair tangled around him on the pillows. “Fucking beautiful, just taking it, I could do whatever I want with you—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Brian pleads, “anything, anything, I’ll be so good—” Pat snaps his hips something nasty, hits Brian _right there_ and pumps Brian’s cock in time with his thrusts. “So big, daddy, feels so good, knew it as soon as I saw you that it’d be so good—”

Pat presses his face tight against Brian’s neck, mouths at his skin open and sloppy and wet as he fucks him and Brian could die from it, months of yearning combined with adrenaline and fear and the weighty knowledge of who Pat is and what he can do, what he _has done._ It makes Brian feel so, so small, and it’s absolutely _delicious._

He whines high and needy in his throat when Pat starts to pull out, Pat shushing him, “Trust me, baby, I got you—” and Brian lets himself go limp again, lets Pat push and wrest and pin him in place. Soon they’re both on their knees, back to chest, Brian cradled in Pat’s arms, his shoulders kissed so sweetly while Pat squeezes his ass and slides himself home.

This angle is _incredible_ , Pat’s cock driven in so deep and tight. He gets a hand on Brian again and Brian _moans_ with it, bears down on him and clenches hard. Pat’s other hand tangles in Brian’s wild hair, holds him in place while he bites along the skin beneath his ear, a possessive growl working its way up from his throat.

“Gonna make you mine, baby boy,” he grunts. “Everyone’s gonna know and nobody will ever touch you again, nobody will even fucking _look_ at you the wrong way, gonna keep you close and protected and laid out like this whenever I fucking want—”

“Hhhh, god, _yes_ please I’m yours let me be yours—” Brian cries out with every kiss and bite from Patrick, and there’s a fire pooling in his gut, alarm bells going off in his head, screaming danger and drowned out by how much he _doesn’t care._ He’s fully leaning on Pat now, ragdoll-limp and boneless in his arms while Pat fucks him, jerks Brian’s cock until he’s strung out and coming, his hands scrabbling against Pat’s thighs. Pat keeps him pressed tight against his hips, even as Brian is whimpering and twitching through the aftershocks, pounds into him several times more and bites the nape of Brian’s neck, hard, when he finally finishes.

God, he’s _pulsing_ inside Brian like this, he can feel it even through the condom and it sets every one of his nerves on fire. He’s going to relish the ache in his thighs, the angry marks all along his body, this feeling of being safe and protected and _owned._ This feeling of—of Patrick _wanting_ him.

Pat pulls out and Brian lets himself be lowered to the bed, lets Pat follow him down to kiss him soft and lazy. Brian reaches up to brush the dark strands of hair away from Pat’s face, and grins at him all dopey and wrung out.

“Hey there, daddy-o.”

Pat buries his laugh against Brian’s neck. “You’re ridiculous. God, and amazing and brilliant and sexy—”

“Mm, lay it on me.” Brian wiggles his hips underneath him. “But clean me up first, and then you can give me my performance review.”

“Brat.” Pat bites his earlobe and climbs off the bed posthaste, stretches his long body and cracks his joints. Brian watches him openly, admires his pale, gangly limbs, the scrapes and scars that dot his torso. Pat catches him, shoots him a wink before disappearing into the bathroom. They clean up together in comfortable silence before Pat drags Brian close to his chest, wraps them up in blankets and just—breathes him in.

The rain clouds have broken and weak rays of sunlight are peeking in. Brian lets himself look at Pat’s face in this soft light, drinks his fill of it, runs his thumb along the curve of Pat’s lower lip. Pat flicks his tongue out to catch it and blinks sleepily down at Brian.

“You know, I didn’t—” Pat stops, shakes his head a bit to think. “I said some stuff, just now—god, I’m fucking gone on you, kid, but you don’t have to stay. I don’t own you, nobody does, and that was fucked up of me to say and you can dip right now and I’d understand—”

Brian kisses him. This will be a thing, he thinks, placating the anxious and self-deprecating parts of Pat’s brain with soft touches. “I want to be,” he whispers against Pat’s lips. “I loved it. Ten out of ten, extremely hot, would submit myself to a mobster bad boy again.”

“Christ.” Pat laughs into the kiss, snakes an arm around Brian’s waist to tug him closer. “You are a complete idiot with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Mmhmm, so are you.” Brian fits himself along the curve of Pat’s neck. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

Pat goes quiet for a moment, shy. “Can I, um—can I take you to dinner this weekend?”

Brian laughs, full and loud and happy, tackles Pat to smother him with kisses. “Yes, yes, you _dummy_ , of course you can. I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Maybe—ha, god, bells not necessary, I don’t think.”

They burrow deeper into the sheets, settling in for a long, lazy afternoon. Pat’s breathing is already starting to even out. Brian does have to leave, eventually, go back to his own apartment and his roommates and his cat and his pointless job. He’ll have to introduce Laura and Jonah to his perfectly normal, not at all shady boyfriend. He’ll maybe even see Pat’s crew again, in less dire circumstances, just friends going out for drinks like anyone else would do. Pat will work and get hurt and maybe even kill again and get away with all of it, and Brian will wait for him, bury himself in Pat’s arms and bed again just like this.

He really wants to see where this goes. He’s really eager to find out.

\-----

_Tara Long (1:46:02 pm): Sending you a new file to take care of  
Tara Long (1:46:10 pm): Preferably by this weekend  
Tara Long (1:46:33 pm): Simone’s gonna be with you on it, so coordinate your schedules  
Tara Long (1:47:58 pm): And hey, bring the kid again, will you?_

**Author's Note:**

> please let me be in the cool polygon fanclub, let me talk to all you beautiful brilliant people


End file.
